Wandering DoGooders: TNG
by Sugarloafin
Summary: 250 years later there are still those who wander the land doing good deeds for little other reason than because they can. This is (at least part of) their story.
1. An Elemental Introduction

"I'm heading out, Petra!"

The bar maid poked her head out over the counter at hearing her name and waved fondly at the departing young man.

"I'll be back as soon I've delivered these to Shaemoor." He gave her a mock salute and was out the door.

Petra leaned back and resumed her casual polishing of the bar. It was early in the day and there were no patrons needing her attention. Her father was also out, buying supplies rather than delivering, so it was just her in the empty tavern. For the moment she was alone with both her cleaning and her daydreams.

She smiled fondly as she recalled how Mikel had first come to them nearly four years back. He had caused quite the stir in their quiet little inn. He was a man who could by turns fade completely into the background or command the utmost attention of everyone in the room. That day he had done a little of both.

He had entered the tavern when the evening rush had died down to the last few determined drinkers. At first his appearance had drawn all eyes to him. He was tall and lean, dressed in the long coat of a scholar, though his boots were clearly made for travel. He carried nothing but a single long knife at his belt. Petra too had stared for a long moment when he entered. His short cropped hair was the most astonishing shade of silvery purple she had ever seen. The eyes beneath the matching purple brows were a deep grey, and they swept the tavern with a cautious intensity. His face was tired and drawn as he made his way towards the bar. That was what at last turned most of the patrons away from their staring. Underneath his odd appearance, this young man was just another guy down on his luck and looking for a little relief from reality.

"Welcome, lad." Petra's father Andrew greeting him heartily from behind the bar. "You looking for a hot meal or a cold ale?"

The young man paused at the stool at the end of the bar, but didn't sit. "Neither, I'm looking for work." His voice too was quiet and tired.

Petra set her tray of empty mugs on the counter even as Andrew sighed heavily. "Ah, sorry. This time of year my daughter Petra and I aren't near busy enough to need more help. It's been so lean this winter, that I'm not sure we can afford a hand even when summer comes. Have you tried the craftsmen? One of them might take a willing hand as an assistant."

The young man nodded resignedly. "It's been a lean year for everyone." It seemed then that he would leave as suddenly as he came, but instead he reached one hand into a pocket of his coat. When he pulled it out a handful of coins lay in his palm. He stared at them a long moment, then finally set one upon the counter and replaced the rest. "One mug."

Andrew smiled warmly and slid a mug of their home brewed ale to the young man as he settled onto the stool. "The name's Andrew. If I can't offer you work, I can at least offer you friendly company."

"Thanks." The young man smiled faintly himself. "I'm Mikel."

"I'm Petra." She sidled up on the other side of the newcomer. She couldn't help it, she always was curious about new people. "Where are you from?"

Mikel looked a little perplexed by her question, then answered with a chuckle. "I live across the street actually."

"Oh, but I thought...I mean you...?" Petra trailed off before her tongue could get her into trouble. She had assumed by his clothes and lack of a job he had come from somewhat further away. She had certainly never seen him in the neighborhood before.

"It's alright. I've been away in the Ascalon Settlement for the last year or so. I guess it shows more than I thought."

"Oh." Petra tried to come up with something to save the conversation, but it was her father that came to her rescue.

"Ah, visiting relatives there, lad?"

A strange look flitted across Mikel's face at the question, but he answered readily. "Sort of. My foster family is originally from there."

Well there was a story in that, Petra had no doubt, but the look on Mikel's face told her this was one instance where she shouldn't pry.

"That's why I am looking for work, though." He went on as if the awkward moment hadn't happened. "I was an assistant to a tailor before I left, but after being gone so long and what with the hard winter..."

"It's been rough on everyone, no mistake." Andrew said solemnly. "Between that and the centaurs, I'm hard pressed to deliver any of my brew to our customers outside the city."

Petra moved off to answer a call for more ale from one of the back tables and missed Mikel's answer to that. She wondered if they might have a spot for him after all. He said he had just returned from the Ascalon Settlement, and that was as dangerous a road as any these days. Clearly he could take care of himself, could he not also take care of a shipment of ale?

By the time she returned to the bar, her father was regaling Mikel with their life story.

"...and after my wife died, little Petra became the woman of the inn. And a right good job of it she's done too. I keep telling her she needs to find a man to settle down with, but she says someone has to look after me. Ha! As if I was the one of us with the spitfire temper, eh daughter?"

"Papa stop!" Petra scolded playfully. This happened a lot with newcomers to the tavern.

Mikel was laughing softly. When she glared at him he winked at her slyly. Petra felt her face heat up infuriatingly.

"Don't encourage him." She turned her mock scolding on the still chuckling young man. "I get enough teasing from him without him adopting you to join in"

Mikel sobered almost immediately and instantly Petra was kicking herself. She had completely forgotten his earlier comment about foster parents.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's alright, really." He cut her off gently, but his expression was hidden as he took another swig of his ale. "I'm not offended. I'm just kind of jealous."

"Of this big lug?" Petra waved her tray at her father and tried to lighten the mood again.

"Of both of you." Mikel smiled sadly and pinned her with those grey eyes. "I never knew my parents. I was left at the orphanage down the street when I was an infant."

"Oy wench!" A drunken voice interrupted from behind her. "You wanna stop making eyes at your new boyfriend an' bring me another?"

Petra felt her face heat up again, this time from anger, as she turned to answer. But the sneering drunk wasn't finished.

"Just 'cause you want to jump 'im don't mean you can forget about me!"

Mikel's voice cut through the drunken slur like cold steel. "Mind what you say to the lady."

The drunk gaped at the young man for a moment. Mikel stared back over his shoulder, his grey eyes as hard as his voice.

"You know the rules, Jarin." Andrew cut in calmly, but still stern. "Anyone who talks to my daughter like that is cut off. Go home and sober up."

Jarin's stare turned from gaping to belligerent. "What Andrew? You're letting this boy run your inn now?"

At that both Petra and her father stiffened. When he spoke again, Andrew's voice was cold.

"That's enough of that. Go on home now." He edged himself to the end of the bar, ready to move out from behind it if Jarin decided to try anything physical. The drunk was the only patron left besides Mikel and Petra was glad of that at least. When times were bad a lot of people came and drank more than they should just to forget. Bar fights had been something of a problem lately.

"I got as much right to be here as him!" Jarin stomped up to the bar and thrust his chest forward. Petra edged backwards to give her father room to step in. Jarin wasn't a big man, but he was younger than Andrew and drunk beyond reason to boot. Ms. Timber was stashed out of reach behind the bar, and Petra wasn't about to get involved without her weapon in hand.

Andrew's reply was cut off by the distinct sound of metal against leather. All eyes went to Mikel who had turned on his stool to face Jarin finally and had furthermore drawn his knife halfway out of its sheath.

Jarin grinned at the challenge. "You seem to like steppin' in where you shouldn't, boy. You sure you wanna make somethin' outta this?"

Petra drew back even further, certain now that a messy fight was inevitable.

"Now lad, there's no call for that." Andrew remained where he was behind the bar, but one hand was snaking down towards Ms. Timber. "Just put the knife away, and Jarin you go on home."

"Aww let 'im, Andrew!" Jarin crowed and moved closer. "Let this scrawny kid dig his own grave!"

Petra wasn't quite sure what happened then, but though Mikel didn't move an inch, a cold blue light sprung up around his left hand, the hand that still held the hilt of his half-sheathed knife. Petra shuddered in a sudden chill, but that was nothing compared to what happened to Jarin. His drunken posturing turned almost immediately into pitiful shivering. He swung a fist wildly at Mikel, who easily stepped off his stool and out of the way. His left hand never left the hilt of his knife, and the knife never left its sheath fully. Within another few seconds, Jarin's lips had turned blue and he was hugging his arms to his chest. With a final snarl at them all, he turned and stomped out of the tavern, still shivering violently. Andrew gave one alarmed look at Mikel, then followed Jarin out the door. Mikel dropped his knife back into his sheath and instantly warmth returned to the room.

It took her several tries, but at last Petra found her voice. "Wow."

Mikel's grey eyes were fixed on the floor. "I probably shouldn't have gotten involved."

That undid the cork on her words. "Are you kidding? That was amazing!"

Mikel flinched, but didn't have a chance to respond as just then Andrew returned. His face was carefully blank.

"He'll be fine." Mikel said, still not looking up. "The spell won't leave any lasting harm. I didn't hit either of you, did I?"

"No." Andrew replied, his voice strangely stilted as if he was wrestling with a decision. "At least, not like Jarin. He was already warming when he got outside anyways. He's headed home."

"Good." Mikel nodded and turned towards the door. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

Petra looked to her father, waiting for him to say something to call Mikel back. Surely he wouldn't let him just walk out after helping them like that, would he?

"Jarin won't likely be giving us any more trouble for a while." Andrew called out to Mikel's retreating back. His words were punctuated by the thunk of a full mug hitting the bar. When he spoke again, his voice was warm. "Have another mug on me as thanks, and tell me more about yourself, lad. I could maybe use an elementalist around here to keep the peace."

By the end of the night, they had hired him, and he'd been with them ever since. He was soon more like a member of the family than just another hired hand. Since he'd admitted to having no real family of his own, Petra and her father had unanimously decided to make him a part of theirs. He helped wherever he could, making deliveries, picking up supplies, and he was always the first to act when patrons got out of hand.

Petra sighed and traded her washrag for a broom. She was in for a lonely morning of cleaning with both her father and her might-as-well-be-a-brother out on errands. At least this time it was only a short delivery to nearby Shaemoor. They had quickly discovered that Mikel had wandering feet. Though his original reason for going to the Ascalon Settlement all those years ago was to help his foster mother move back there after her husband had died, the reason he stayed a year was because he was exploring the nearby countryside. Even with all he did at the inn, he still frequently disappeared, occasionally for days at a time. Sometimes he told them where he was going, and sometimes he didn't even know himself. By now he had to have wandered the whole of Kryta, she thought, but he could always find somewhere else he hadn't yet been.

Still, as often as he left, he returned and he almost always brought gifts from people he had aided along the way. He would laugh off their worry and settle right back into the work of the inn. There was something in him that, just like on that first night, wouldn't let him turn away when he saw something wrong. Something fierce in him took over and he'd throw himself in to help. Petra loved him for it, but secretly thought it would someday get him killed. Still, the letters and gifts proved that she wasn't the only one to admire his noble heart, no matter how gruff and dismissing he got about it afterwards. She never would understand how he could dislike showing off his magic so much, and then use it with complete abandon as soon as he saw someone in trouble.

Petra's musing was interrupted by the tavern door slamming open to admit her father. She was about to chide him for his rough entrance, but stopped dead at seeing the look on his face.

"Papa? Why are you back so early? What's happened?"

He was out of breath as if he'd been running. Finally he breathed out, "There's trouble in Shaemoor!"

"What?"

"The garrison's been attacked by Tamini. Some have gotten as far as the village." He leaned his hands against the wall, still short of breath. "Captain Thackeray and the Seraph are there, but he sent a desperate call for reinforcements, that's how I heard. They say there's some kind of giant stone creature conjured by the Tamini attacking the garrison!"

"That's-" Petra's voice failed her as she realized the real reason her father looked so afraid. "That's where Mikel went!"

Her father nodded grimly as he leaned against the wall. "The lad's surely gone to the garrison already."

"Dwayna look out for him." She whispered the prayer softly. She too knew that Mikel wouldn't hesitate for an instant to help the Seraph at the garrison. She loved him for it, but still secretly believed it would one day get him killed. She could only pray that it was not this day.


	2. An Immortal Struggle

The clang of weapons was the only sound in the center of the usually bustling Mabon Market. All the crafters and merchants who populated the area were gathered, even as Caithe herself was, to watch the unfolding duel.

She didn't know what it was that drew her to this particular Valiant. Perhaps it was their common dream of fighting the Orrian elder dragon. Whatever it was, she felt compelled to see this wyld hunt of his through to the end with her own eyes. Even in just the short time between his awakening and this final confrontation with the green knight Bercilak she had seen this Valiant grow by leaps and bounds. Truly after this day she would call him a sapling no longer.

The first time she had seen Ciarannael after meeting him in the dream, he was already standing between the threat of the green knight and his latest victims. He was young, untried, and yet unwavering in the face of the imposing presence of the green knight. Caithe was uncomfortably reminded of Riannoc in that moment. He too had unwaveringly challenged his foe head on, and he had not returned.

But Ciarannael was definitely not Riannoc. The young valiant had none of the firstborn's brown pigmentation. The muted green of Ciarannael's skin had faded towards grey in the waning light of dusk, while deep red patterns along his neck glowed brilliant in the gathering darkness. The dark red leaves of his hair too glowed brightly, pulsating slowly as he breathed. Bright red eyes blazed beneath that cascade of leaf hair. They fairly threw defiance in the face of one who would attack and kill unarmed opponents. By the way he stood so protectively in front of the injured sylvari and his lover, Caithe knew that wyld hunt or no, Ciarannael would have challenged Bercilak regardless. This valiant was not Riannoc, charging into glorious battle against evil. This one was as a shield, called to bravery not by a desire to vanquish evil so much as a desire to protect others.

The first fight between Ciarannael and Bercilak, Caithe was not afraid. The valiant was young, but he was also strong. He fought well, even better than she remembered from the dream. Clearly he had learned much already in the short time since she had last seen him.

Bercilak, though, was a strong and canny warrior. When at last Ciarannael's sword pierced through both the green knight's defenses and his armor, he was clearly winded and weary. When Dagdar cheered, the valiant merely let the point of his sword drop to the earth. Caithe kept her eyes on the fallen body of Bercilak. Something felt amiss to her, though she could not have said what it was that troubled her.

Then cruel laughter had rung out and the green knight had risen from his seeming death unscathed. Ciarranael was quick to face the challenge anew, but Caithe could see that while the first battle had worn the valiant down, Bercilak was magically refreshed.

Without a word, Ciarannael lifted his sword turned to battle his foe once more. Bercilak gave him no space to recover, attacking relentlessly. The valiant was hard pressed to defend himself, much less make an assault of his own. Their swords clashed and rang in the evening air. The glowing green of Bercilak's armor was met with the brilliant red blaze of the valiant. With every strike she could see Ciarannael's strength waver, and yet his eyes only burned brighter. Despite his determination, he was fighting his second battle, while his opponent was as strong as if it was his first. When the green knight feinted right and struck left, Cirannael was unable to bring his own blade up to block in time. It was all the valiant could do to duck out of the way. Still his shoulder caught the edge of Bercilak's blade. Golden sap gleamed and dripped from the gash rent in the valiant's armor. For the first time since the duel began, the valiant's bright red eyes showed a flicker of fear.

Caithe's hands twitched to the hilts of her knives, but she forced herself to hold steady. This was not her fight, not her wyld hunt. Still she began to fear for the young valiant. He was only the second sylvari to see the shadow of the dragon in the dream and she would not see him fall to such a one as Bercilak.

"Do not let him corner you." She called what advice she could to him, then knew of a better way to focus him anew. "If you are defeated then surely Eladus and Dagdar will be next!"

As she thought, that was enough to harden his face into determined lines once again. He did not immediately stand from where he knelt after Bercilak's strike. Instead he channeled a stream of blue energy into his sword and slammed it point first into the ground. Bercilak took a hasty step back as a gleaming white symbol appeared at their feet radiating out from the embedded sword. Ciarannael stood, looking refreshed by the magic of the symbol he had placed. Before Bercilak could fully recover, the valiant leapt to his foe with a blinding light. The green knight swung wildly and never saw the blade that severed his head from his neck.

"Don't let your guard down!" Caithe called out even as the headless body of the green knight fell.

Indeed the young valiant kept his blade up and at the ready, though his injured arm trembled. His eyes went wide in horror as the body of the green knight began to rise and replaced his severed head.

"Good advice, firstborn!" Bercilak crowed, looking once again healed and refreshed. "What a waste of time. Come and slay me once more, Valiant! I can do this all day!"

Caithe watched as Ciarannael took a deep breath to steady himself, and then something changed in his eyes. Suddenly the fear that had been creeping in her mind grew like an overwatered weed.

While Bercilak continued to gloat, daring the valiant to come at him, Ciarannael swung his sword around to point directly at the green knight. A chain made of pure white light flew from the blade and bound itself tightly around Bercilak. Before the green knight could do anything to free himself, the valiant shifted his stance and pulled the hilt of his sword back to his side. The chain of light pulled taut and yanked Bercilak inexorably towards the valiant and his waiting blade.

Caithe's hands tightened on the hilts of her knives, but she held herself still. In the last instant Bercilak had raised his own blade, as the valiant must have known he would. The two combatants crashed to the ground. Bercilak was impaled through the chest upon the valiant's greatsword. He hung lifeless upon the blade, but still clutched in his hand was the hilt of his own sword. Beneath him lay Ciarannael, with the blade sunk deep in his shoulder and pinning him to the ground. Caithe could not repress a sigh of relief when she saw he still breathed.

Then Bercilak too drew breath. He stood slowly, drawing back and off of the valiant's sword even as he pulled his own blade free. Cirannael gave a low cry as the weapon was pulled from his shoulder, but as soon as he was free he was moving and struggling to stand.

Bercilak took a casual step back and flipped his sword up onto his shoulder. Ciarannael's sap still dripped from its edge. "It was a good try, but you're no match for me, weed."

Ciarannael made it to one knee, using his sword as a support. "I will not let you kill them." He declared steadily, though his breath was hitched. "You'll have to go through me, and I am not down yet."

"You did well enough that I'll let them live, and you, for now." Bercilak laughed and turned away. He waved one green armored arm lazily at them as he walked. "The next time we meet, try to make it a real challenge, or I'll finish what I started here today."

Luckily for both Eladus and Ciarannael someone had called for a mender. She arrived just as Bercilak was departing, though it wasn't until the green knight was long out of sight that the young valiant finally allowed himself to relax into her care. Caithe had smiled fondly at him while he was being treated, certain now that her fears were unfounded. Surely one day his determination to shield others would end in his demise, but she knew he craved the experiences of the world too much to seek it out needlessly. And when his death did come, he would surely not begrudge it if it meant he had shielded another.

Even now, at this last duel with the green knight she saw he was throwing everything he had into the fight and that was why he would win. Bercilak feared death, perhaps he always had, and that was why he had sought out immortality. Ciarannael knew better than that. Death was just another experience to be had. There was so much else to see and do first, he would fight to his last breath for the chance to experience it all, but when he came to that last breath he would give it willingly. A coward like Bercilak stood no chance against such resolve.

At long last Bercilak fell to the ground with a heavy thud. His once lustrous green armor was dull and dented, nigh destroyed by the very hammer that had made it. Caithe watched intently as the valiant stood over his defeated foe. His fingers tightened around the haft of Occam's hammer even as he held it low before him. Everyone who was witness to the duel held their breath for a long moment, waiting to see if the green knight would again magically arise from death.

At last the moment passed and the green knight remained truly dead. A relieved cheer was raised by those gathered to watch the fight. Bercilak was at last defeated for good. No longer would he terrorize and murder young sylvari under the guise of honorable combat. Caithe too let a soft cheer sound in her mind and heart. This was one more victory against the nightmare court and their spreading evil.

She watched fondly from the sidelines as the young valiant returned the hammer almost reverently to Occam. He was not uninjured, but he seemed not to feel the cuts and bruises his opponent had given him. His face was calm, but uplifted. And though it was daytime and the glow of his skin and hair was dimmed, he seemed to almost shine from within. Caithe understood that well. She had felt it herself once before. He had completed his first wyld hunt.

His eyes, however, remained unsettled. She understood that too. Where one hunt ended, the next began.

"Come valiant," She called him gently to her. "I believe it is time for you to meet the Pale Tree."


	3. An Unwelcome Wait

Clawspur was good at waiting. He always had been. He'd done a lot of waiting in his years since the fahrar. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, waiting for his marching orders from the Centurions, waiting for his allies who he wasn't certain were going to make it out of a trap, waiting for his enemies to land in an ambush, waiting for other legions to pull their weight in a joint mission... He was certainly well familiar with waiting. The thing that most of his commanding officers had never seemed to understand, however, was that just because he was good at it didn't mean he always liked it.

This time was another of the 'waiting for allies' moments, and Clawspur was outright hating it. But while he was good at waiting, she was good at talking. And that was why she, even though she was a she, got to be the one to infiltrate the Flame Legion camp. Clawspur agreed with Tribune Desertgrave's assignment, but he still didn't like it.

This was the second time in as many weeks that he'd been left waiting alone for her, though the first had been entirely unplanned. That whole disaster of a battle hadn't been planned, and that was the problem.

Legionnaire Howl had run forward, as he usually did. He was called The Brazen for a reason. He had ordered the rest of them to hang back, guard the gate and keep the path to the front clear. They did that, and they did it well enough that a few others could get through to the crypts where the main fighting was. When things started to go south was when some other legionnaire showed up and started barking orders at them. With Howl out of earshot, they'd obeyed the command of the nearest legionnaire, even if she wasn't really theirs.

She sent Kharasa forward to the crypts too, as backup for Howl and Tribune Brimstone. With her went her turrets, and thus a good chunk of their firepower, but Eurayle and Reeva did their best to pick up the slack. Then those two were ordered to split off and cover another gate. Maverick was sent to guard a mortar cluster. Soon only Dinky and Clawspur himself were left in their original position. It didn't take long for their defensive line of two to collapse. They tried to fall back to the mortars, where Maverick was, but the ghosts were relentless. Dinky fought hard and fell hard, and Clawspur had never been more proud of the runt. Then it was just he and the ghosts and a faint hope of getting back to his comrades before he too was brought down.

He made it to the mortars, but they had already been overrun. Maverick fought like a berserker beside the last of the weapons still standing, but he was already mortally injured. The last one standing in a pile of dead bodies and broken mortars, Clawspur did the only thing he could. He got himself to high ground. Through the trees he could make out fires near the gate that he could only assume were Eurayle's. Between them lay a horde of angry ghosts.

He started at the back and killed as he moved forward, trying to join up with what was left of his warband. He'd made it through half a dozen of the ghosts when the power ripples of Duke Baradin being dispersed exploded out from the crypts. With it, all the ghosts charging him and the gates also dissolved. Finally his path was clear.

When Clawspur arrived at the gate only a handful of Charr were still standing, none of them were his bandmates. Someone, he didn't know or care who, grabbed his arm and shoved him at a medic. Somehow he hadn't even realized he was injured. They asked him where he'd been assigned, who he reported to, and where his warband was. He didn't answer, because he didn't want to make it true.

When the medic finally released him, he went straight to the crypts. That was where the last of his warband had been. They only ones he hadn't seen die had gone there. When he arrived the first body he saw was Howl's. There were many others and he searched them silently. Kharasa wasn't there, neither among the living nor the dead. A scout found him then, and when he asked after her, told him that she'd been sent to help with cleanup efforts. She'd been sent away from the warband again by another legionnaire who wasn't their own. It was about then that it really hit him. Their legionnaire lay dead on the ground beside him, and their warband now numbered exactly two.

Others on cleanup duty came to bury the bodies. Clawspur helped inter Howl near the crypt, but he didn't speak. When he finally went back to Smokestead he found fresh graves already covered over the rest of his comrades. He stood a moment beside each, and then went back to the barracks in the citadel to wait. He still said nothing, and no one stopped him to give him other orders.

When at last Kharasa came into the barracks, Clawspur was right there at the entrance waiting for her. Her leather armor was roughed up and dirty, and her fur was more brown than its natural white. He almost couldn't see the subtle grey shadings that marked her face and arms. One of her long horns had a new notch carved into it's sinuous curve. Her usually bright blue eyes were tired, and all of her ears were drooping. Clawspur figured he didn't look much better, but damn was he glad to see her alive and in one piece. If the weary smile that stretched Kharasa's narrow muzzle was any indication, she felt much the same.

Then her ears perked up and she started looking around.

"We're all that's left." He said it bluntly, forestalling any questions from her. "After you got sent forward, some mouse of a legionnaire split us up. It all went south from there."

"Everyone?" It wasn't like her to ask him to repeat something, but this wasn't a usual situation. "But Howl was right-"

"I helped bury Howl." Clawspur looked away. He couldn't stand seeing the naked shock and despair on her face. He'd had all his time waiting to school his features. To her this was a brand new loss.

And then, as she always seemed to do, she surprised him again. She clapped a paw to his shoulder and steered him towards their warband's quarters. Her face was fierce and proud again, though they both knew it was just a mask for the others in the barracks who were undoubtedly watching.

Once inside she slumped into the nearest seat, dropping her battered rifle to lean against the wall as she did. Clawspur too sat, watching her carefully as the mask slipped from her face.

"Tell me everything."

And though he was the one of their warband known most for his silence, he told the whole story of that thrice damned battle. She watched him intently through it all, and never interrupted once. When he was done she replied in kind, and told him of fighting Duke Baradin's ghost beside tribune Brimstone and being 'volunteered' to help with cleanup afterwards. When she finished, she dropped a letter on the table between them.

"This makes more sense now."

Clawspur simply raised a brow at that, but took the letter when she gestured for him to read it. It didn't take him long, the note was short, but it's contents were potent.

_Kharasa Embershard,_

_Report to me at your earliest convenience. We need to discuss the future of you and your warband._

_-Tribune Torga Desertgrave_

Clawspur read in a second time, and then laid the missive back on the table. "Dibs on it not being me."

"What?"

"Dibs on not being the new legionnaire."

She blinked at him, sighed heavily, and then finally showed her teeth in a weary grin. "I guess that answers that."

Clawspur just nodded. He knew, he could see it in her face. She didn't want the job any more than he did. She wanted Howl and his crazy tactics back too. But the difference between them was right there in that grin. She, unlike him, could actually do the job, and do it with a smile because that was what needed to happen.

She clapped a paw on his shoulder again, and though her grin had faded, he could see the resolve in her eyes.

"I'm going to get cleaned up, get some rest, and report to the Tribune in the morning." She gave a mock delicate sniff. "You should do the same, minus the part about the Tribune unless you want to forfeit your dibs."

Clawspur barked a laugh despite himself. This was the sparring partner he was used to.

"But first," Her paw squeezed his shoulder tightly, and this time her grin was real. "We're going to steal some Norn ale from the Iron Legion quarters and toast our fallen."

Clawspur shifted on the rock he was perched on and tried to shake off the memories of that night. Not that he recalled much after the theft of the ale. He wasn't waiting in the barracks this time. He was close enough to aid her if she needed it. But he would totally blow her cover if he went in, and that was best saved as a last resort.

So he waited. He sharpened both his knives, then the spare tucked in his greave. He watched the hill she had disappeared over until the shadows grew long and dusk began to deepen. Just as he was about to get out his whetstone again, a familiar silhouette appeared at the top of the hill. He stood and moved to meet her, but stopped short as another figure appeared on the hill next to her.

As they approached Clawspur could tell she had lost her disguise along the way. That didn't help his mood any, and he was quite prepared to tell her so. He stopped his tongue, however, upon seeing who was following her. The soldier was wearing the remains of Ash Legion armor, but he had clearly been through a tough battle. He was also barely older than a cub. He looked like he was fresh out of the fahrar. As they drew closer, Clawspur noticed more than a few places on the cub where burns had scorched through armor and fur leaving bare and blistered skin. He hadn't just been through battle then, he had been a Flame Legion prisoner. That explained some things.

"You're back in one piece, at least." He tried to sound gruff, but he let his relief show in his eyes.

"Quick and quiet." Kharasa said it with a hint of grim humor. Her armor was roughed up too.

"That's what you call quick and quiet?" The cub piped up from behind her.

Clawspur raised a brow at his legionnaire.

"Springing a prisoner tends to blow one's cover." She admitted wryly.

"Who's the cub?" He jerked his chin at the young soldier.

Kharasa waived the cub forward. "Yahuk Fellstrike. He lost his warband in a Flame Legion raid. He's young, but he held his own; showed those flame rats what burning really means."

Clawspur saw where this was going, and he didn't hesitate to nod. He trusted Kharasa's judgement, and his own said that the cub had been through a lot and survivied. He'd fit right into their camp.

"As of now," Kharasa turned her bright blue eyes back to Yahuk. "You are the third member of our warband."

"I'm honored, Legionnaire." The cub said it sincerely, and Clawspur knew he'd do alright.

Kharasa just nodded and gestured at her second. "This is Clawspur. He doesn't say much, but when he does it's because it's important."

Yahuk gave him a weary salute, but Clawspur ignored the formality. He'd cure the cub of that habit quick enough. In fact, he knew just the thing for properly inducting the young soldier into their warband.

"So Boss," Clawspur kept his voice serious, though he was struggling not to smile. "Are we going to toast our new member tonight?"

"I can report to the Tribune in the morning." Kharasa grinned for real again, not out of duty. "I think the bloodies just got in a new shipment from Hoelbrak. We should teach them how to share, Ash Legion style."


	4. Stepping Away From The Past

"Agent has a nice ring to it, eh partner?"

Mikel couldn't help but smile. Tybalt's enthusiasm knew no bounds. "I still owe you that cider."

"That you do." The Charr's big, square muzzle split into a grin. "And since the preceptors gave us a few days leave before our next assignment, I think it's high time I collected. Lion's Arch?"

"Yeah..." Mikel trailed off as his attention was drawn to Demmi Beetlestone being debriefed by a pair of Whispers Agents. She was fingering the chain that had held her mother's pendant. She hadn't hesitated to give up the heirloom once she knew it was how she was being tracked, and yet clearly it was a sharp loss to her. Mikel felt a stab of both jealousy and empathy.

"Mikel, you alright?" Tybalt's voice was unusually serious and it yanked him most of the way out of his thoughts.

"I'm fine." He shook his head and managed a smile for his partner. "I'll meet you in Lion's Arch. I've got something I need to do first."

Tybalt looked askance at that, but merely nodded. They kept to silence even as they left the chantry of secrets.

Just south of Lion's Arch, Mikel split from Tybalt and headed west. It didn't take him long to find the old road that wended westward from the large city towards the Kessex Hills. The countryside was quiet. Not many people lived so far out from either Lion's Arch or Divinity's Reach. Centaurs were few so far south, and without travelers to prey on, bandits and pirates were likewise scarce.

As the road bent back southwards Mikel moved with more caution. Sure enough, just as the road dipped through a cleft in the hills he could see signs of ettins. Luckily enough it seemed that none were recent. They had not returned since he and the Shining Blade Exemplars had cleared them out.

When he reached the low rock wall ringing the small hill, Mikel looked about for the spiders that had last made this place their home. They too appeared to be gone for good. The ruins were truly empty this time.

Slowly he made his way up to the smashed doorway. The last time he came he was looking only for answers on his parents' whereabouts. He had still been caught up in the futile dream that they were still alive and looking for him. In the disappointment of that hope being crushed, he had fairly fled the ruins without even trying to learn who his parents had really been.

The door lay inside the house, ripped from its hinges and partially burnt. Whatever had come for them had made a forceful entry. For the first time in his life Mikel began to realize how lucky he was to have survived.

He trailed his hands on the stone of the walls, as if he could learn about the house's history through that touch. A table stood on one side of the room. Two chairs were intact beside it; a third was smashed to splinters nearby. Beside the table was a modest cooking area with a wood stove sitting cold and dark in the corner. Many of the cooking utensils lay scattered and broken. Mikel crouched down and sifted through the debris gently. None of it could tell him anything other than more details of their final struggle, and at last he moved further into the house.

The next room was clearly a bedroom. A simple wooden bedframe took up the center of the space. Mice had clearly made a nest in what was left of the mattress. Decaying curtains hung over a window that offered a pleasant view of the hills beside the road. A simple wooden dresser stood by the door, but all of it's drawers were missing. Mikel was about to turn away to another room when he caught sight of something else beneath the window. When he moved closer he realized it was a cradle.

He knelt beside the cradle and ran his hand softly over the wood of its frame. The boards were rough and when he pushed it, the cradle rocked somewhat crookedly. Carved somewhat jaggedly into one end of the cradle was a symbol of protection and the initials 'M.B.' Somehow he just knew one of his parents had made it for him with love despite the lack of carpentry skill. A scrap of cloth lay in the tiny bed still, and though it was faded it was still soft. Mikel was sure if he asked some of the old mothers at the orphanage they would tell him that he had been left there wrapped in just such a cloth.

The last room of the house held the remains of a desk that had clearly been ransacked. The drawers lay scattered and broken about the room. A heavy chair lay tossed on it's side. Beside it stood a simple rocking chair of the same level of craftsmanship as the cradle in the bedroom. Had it too been made by one of his parents? Almost reverently he sank to sit in the rocker. It was comfortable, if uneven. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine his mother holding him as a baby in that very room, rocking him to sleep. He stood quickly before he could make himself any more heartsick than he already was.

He turned his attention to the desk and the narrow bookshelf beside it. The desk was empty. Any papers that had once been there had long since been taken by the White Mantle who had sought his parents' deaths. The bookshelf had been similarly cleaned out, but a few battered books remained. The cover of one had been slashed near in half, it's title unreadable. Mikel opened it carefully and found it to simply be a cooking guide. He flipped a few pages, but found nothing else of interest and placed it gently back on the shelf. The second book he picked up held only blank pages. The final book lay on the top shelf, and Mikel had to stretch to reach it.

When he'd pulled it down and brushed the dust off the cover he found it was a textbook of magical instruction, specifically the elemental magics. In fact, Mikel had a copy of that very book on his own bookshelf back in Divinity's Reach. Had one of his parents also been an elementalist? He knew that a tendency towards a specific branch of magic could run in a family, but it was by no means the rule. He flipped open the book with quaking fingers. His breath caught in his throat as he flipped through the pages. In every margin notes in sketchy handwriting had been crammed into every available space. Mikel knew instantly what he was looking at; his own copy of that book looked much the same. Those were the notes of a student eagerly studying his or her craft. He quickly flipped to the inside cover, and found only the initial 'R.B.'

Mikel's heart leapt in his chest as he stared at those two simple letters. This was what he had been searching for. Perhaps he could finally lay the specter of the unknown to some sort of rest. He had an initial now. He could take that to the Shining Blade, and perhaps even learn a name. He turned to the back of the book, hoping for more. There was no other identification. As he flipped forward again a small stone disk fell from the pages. Mikel caught the stone on reflex. It was no larger than a silver coin, but was made of a translucent blue stone. Something about it hummed faintly with magical energy, but he had no idea what it might be. That was when he noticed the page the stone had fallen from. A hole had been cut through several pages to make a space to hide the disk. When the book was closed, there was no indication that anything had been hidden within. Someone had taken great care to keep the disk hidden. Perplexed, Mikel pocketed the stone disk and turned back to the beginning of the book.

Suddenly he thought of Demmi fingering the chain of her mother's pendant while divulging her father's secrets. She had not hesitated to leave sentimentality behind when she had to. She still wore the chain because it was an important memory, but she was still moving forward. She had braved facing down her father's hired guardsmen, and moved on to a life that was not determined by her past or her family.

He thought also of his partner Tybalt, waiting for him in Lion's Arch. It was time he stopped wallowing in the past. There were things he needed to do. Mikel shut the book with a snap and held it tight to him. He would read the notes as soon as he had a chance, but now it was time to be away.

There was one last thing before he left, however. He stepped carefully into the cave that led to his parents' graves. The spiders had not returned to that place either, and the natural rock tomb was quiet and still. That was why he immediately heard the sound of footsteps from behind him.

Mikel whirled quickly, but silently. He held the book tight in one hand and drew his long knife with the other. He whispered a quick invocation to Melandru and felt her power of earth flow through him. The stone about him sung to him, resonating with the elemental magic he was preparing to call upon. Fury built in him at the thought of bandits or other lowlifes finding the house. No one was going to defile his parents's resting place while he still drew breath.

Mikel stepped as silently as he could to the entrance of the cave. He heard another quiet step and knew the intruder was close. He sprang around the corner and brandished his knife...about an inch from a very startled wide, white muzzle.

Mikel sagged against the wall of the cave and dropped his knife into its sheath. "Don't scare me like that. I nearly impaled you."

Tybalt Leftpaw gave a nervous laugh and ran his paw between his horns. "Before we have that cider together? Naw, you wouldn't."

"What are you doing here?"

Tybalt looked around nervously before answering. "I probably shouldn't have, but I followed you. It seemed like something was wrong back at the Chantry, I wanted to make sure you weren't in some kind of trouble."

Mikel had to smile at that. Trust Tybalt to always have the best intentions at heart. "Don't worry, I'm in no trouble."

"What is this place?"

"My parent's house." Mikel knew better than to try and deflect questions. His partner was curious to a fault. "Or at least what's left of it."

"What happened here?" Tybalt was really looking around now, taking in the ransacked rooms and the carved out cave.

"According to the Shining Blade, agents of the White Mantle did this." Mikel turned back towards the darkness of the cave. "Friends or fellow Shining Blade spies were able to rescue me and brought me to an orphanage in Divinity's Reach. I never knew any of this until about a month ago when the White Mantle tried to kill me too."

Mikel felt the soft touch of Tybalt's paw on his arm, but he shrugged it off and moved further into the cave. He was struggling to move on as it was; he didn't want sympathy pulling him back.

Luminescent fungus lined the walls and lit the passage enough that Mikel could easily see his way to the gravestones. As he did on his first visit, Mikel knelt before the graves and said a quiet prayer to the Six. He heard Tybalt shifting behind him. When Mikel at last stood, he had barely had a chance to turn around before his partner started speaking.

"I lost my warband, and my paw, in an explosion that I bungled." The Charr spoke quick and low, as if telling the story was like drawing a thorn out of a wound. "That's why I joined the order, because I was useless to the legion. And that's why I hadn't ever been on a field mission before I met you. I didn't know what it was, but I knew when I met you that you had some black hole in your past you were covering for too. I put on a bright face, and so did you. You had my back through it all, and what's more, you trusted me to have yours. You're the first that's ever really done that for me. So I'm here to do it for you."

Mikel was stunned by the honest and serious words from the often joking Tybalt. It seemed he wasn't the only one who was struggling to move on from the past. He clapped a hand to his partner's arm and managed a weak smile. "I'm glad you followed me."

Tybalt's grin threatened to split his face in two.

"It's time we both leave the past behind us," Mikel kept his hand on his partner's arm and steered the Charr back towards the entrance of the cave. "and look to the future."

Tybalt ducked his head and took a deep breath. When he raised his face again his eyes were shining. "Long past time. Let's go get that cider, partner."


	5. Stepping Up To The Fight

"It's over, Waine." Ciarannael let the point of his greatsword fall to rest on the sand of the arena. "I am here for the sword, not your life."

The human snarled and clawed his way to his knees, still gripping the hilt of Caladbolg tightly. "It's mine! I suffered for it! It belongs to me far more than another Sylvari who knows nothing!"

Ciarannael raised his sword again to guard against Waine's desperately renewed attack. Though the human was clumsy in his weariness, Caladbolg was a powerful weapon in any hands.

"Riannoc was weak! He was weak and he fell! He wasn't worthy to have it! I survived and the blade is mine!"

Ciarannael retreated a few steps and swung his blade wide in the space he'd gained between him and the human. A shining arc of blue magic sprung from the tip of the greatsword and caught Waine square in the stomach. The magic bolt forced the human back a few steps, but that was all. Ciarannael had no wish to truly harm the man further.

"You fled, Waine." The sylvari said earnestly, trying hard to make the human understand. "You fled because you were afraid, because Riannoc should never have brought you there. He too was young, he had no idea what that battle would mean for you."

"Shut up!" Waine cried out, but did not renew his attack. "Riannoc would have led us both to our deaths, and for nothing!"

"Riannoc had no wish to die, and nor did he wish death for you, but when you fled with Caladbolg you sealed his fate! Without the sword he stood no chance against that horde."

"You know nothing! You weren't there, you cannot know!"

Ciarrannael again let his sword drop. When he finally answered his voice was quiet and sad. "I did see, Waine. I wasn't there, but I saw all the same. Riannoc fought for his people and for you. When you fled with Caladbolg Riannoc knew he couldn't win against the risen. He also knew that they would follow you and kill you. Even with Caladbolg, you wouldn't have made it far, for that was the prize they were after. Riannoc could have run with you, Waine, but he chose to stay behind and fight. He stayed even though he knew it would mean his death, to give you the chance to get away, to keep the sword from falling into the Lich's hands."

"No..." Waine sank to his knees in the sand, his protest barely more than a whisper. Even the spectators had gone quiet at the strange turn in the battle. "No, it wasn't my fault..." The human at last dropped Caladbolg unceremoniously to the ground and held his head in his hands. "It wasn't my fault!"

Slowly Ciarannael approached the weeping human. He had seen in Waine's eyes, both in his magical trip to the past as well as when he'd entered the arena, that guilt for his actions had weighed heavily on him. Why else would he come risk himself in these battles if he so feared death? Why else if not to seek some form of absolution? But though he sought it, he still ran from it, for he was still afraid of it.

Ciarannel sheathed his greatsword on his back and knelt, seemingly unnoticed by Waine. The human still didn't stir as Ciarannael gently gripped Caladbolg's hilt and lifted it from where it lay. He had no sooner stood with the magical blade in hand, however, before Waine transformed from weeping to rage. The human leapt at him, almost feral in his fury.

"It was Riannoc's fault! He was the weak one! The sword belongs to me!"

The impact of Waine's furious charge knocked Ciarannael off his feet. He lost his grip on Caladbolg, and fell heavily onto his back in the sand. Waine dove for the magical sword and spun to attack once more. Ciarannel rolled quickly out of the way of a fierce downward slash. He got his own weapon drawn just in time to block another strike. At a third hit, his greatsword snapped clean in two. The sharp edge of Caladbolg bit deep into his left arm, cutting through armor as easily as flesh. Ciarannael blocked the next strike with the hilt of his broken blade, only to have it knocked from his one-handed grip. He desperately channeled a white pulse of magic to push his attacker back even as he fell to one knee.

The human staggered under the magical pressure, but seemed to feel none of his earlier weariness. He raised Caladbolg high with a vicious snarl.

"Stop this, Waine! No one else need die for it!" The sylvari cried, though he knew it was useless. Waine charged. The sylvari realized with a start that there were fresh tears flowing from the human's eyes.

Ciarannael grabbed the only weapon he could, the other half of his broken greatsword. He gripped the blade tight enough that the edges bit into his hand. With a cry of his own, he let his magic grant might to his arm, and met Waine's charge head on.

Caladbolg fell almost gently to the sand. Waine's body dropped heavily beside it with the broken greatsword blade sunk deep in his chest. Ciarannael took one unsteady step away from his fallen opponent. Golden sap dripped to the sand from both his left arm and right hand, but he hardly noticed. He barely heard the roar of the crowd as he was declared the winner. He gathered up Caladbolg and silently left the arena.

It wasn't until much later that Branthyn found him. He was standing along one of the walls of the outpost, looking out across the nearby fields. Caladbolg rested in the sheath on his back, a far lighter weight than any weapon had a right to be. He had cleaned it of the sand and his own sap. It gleamed pale and beautiful in the deepening dusk. Ciarannael had bandaged his wounds as best as he was able. They would heal in time. When Branthyn finally found him there at the edge of the wall Ciarannael knew the crusader had to have purposely given him the time alone. The outpost that overlooked the arena wasn't large, and the small crowd of spectators had long since dispersed.

"You were amazing!" The perky Vigil crusader stopped just short of clapping his injured arm in greeting. "The Vigil could use ten of you."

"I told him I only wanted the sword, but he wouldn't stop." Cirannael said softly without looking away from the horizon. "This is the second time I've had to kill someone who so feared death they were afraid to live. In that last moment I could see it, he wanted so badly to die, and yet I had become his greatest fear."

Branthyn drew up beside him at the wall. When she spoke again her voice was thoughtful. "He carried that burden for so long; he probably found it a relief to be slain by one who knew the truth."

"I think that's why he was here, in the arena. He so badly wanted to be set free of his guilt, but death was the only way he could think of."

"And he was too frightened of dying to let go." Branthyn finished for him. "You know, your honor and compassion even more than your combat prowess is why I say you belong in the Vigil."

"Why did you join the Vigil, Branthyn?" Ciarannael turned to face her as he asked.

"Let me take a look at those wounds, and I'll tell you the story." Branthyn flashed him a determined smile as she took his injured hand first in hers. "Before I woke, I Dreamed of a flower. It was bright and beautiful, but delicate. Even so, it stood in shadow and seemed to hold a deep darkness back. Behind the flower, protected from the shadow that creeped towards it, was a slender sapling. Though the young tree appeared strong, it was the delicate flower that held back the darkness."

"What did it mean?" Ciarannael winced as Branthyn drew a leafy bandage tight around the cuts on his hand.

She was quiet a moment as she began removing the bandages he'd clumsily wrapped around the gash in his arm. "Some months after I awoke I was exploring the Caledon forest and I met another sylvari."

"There are many sylvari in the forest." He said it more to take his mind off her ministrations than to question her story.

"Yes, but I recognized this one, even though we had never before met." Branthyn sighed wistfully. "He was the flower. He was bright and beautiful and delicate. He recognized me as well, for he had the same dream as I. I was the sapling, slender but strong. We were never parted after that. In my dream it was he who shielded me, but I was determined that no darkness would touch my dear flower."

"What happened then?"

Branthyn finished tying off the last leaf bandage, but did not look up. "The nightmare court attacked our house once, but I was able to fight them off. Other times in the forest, dangers would threaten, but always my strength was enough to protect us, to protect my flower. And then one day Risen came up from out of the swamp. A Vigil crusader too came; a Norn, tall and strong. But even he could not hold all of them back, and they reached our house. There too my strength failed, and I called for Tarin to run, but he refused. His illusions held off the darkness long enough for the Crusader to reach us and dispatch the rest. But Tarin himself had been mortally injured. I held him as he lay dying, and begged him to shatter the illusion, to show me that it was just another trick of his magic. And then he was gone, and I knew the dream had told us true. The delicate flower had protected the strong sapling."

Ciarannael laid his newly bandaged hand gently on Branthyn's. "I am sorry."

She shook her head and wiped away a tell tale moisture from her eyes, but she turned her other hand to firmly clasp his. "I went with that Crusader back to Vigil Keep that very day. I will return Tarin's protection to everyone I can, so long as this sapling still has strength." She let go his hand then and patted his shoulder. "Come, we must return Caladbolg to the Pale Tree and discuss our next move. There is still Mazdak to deal with."

Ciarannael moved to follow her back towards the city, but hesitated. "Branthyn, I have been to Orr briefly though a magical portal, and what I felt there...Even if I had not dreamed of fighting the dragon I would still feel called to do so after visiting that barren, dead place, but I take no pleasure in combat."

She turned back to him with a knowing smile. "Nor do I, when it is all death and doom. But I take even less in seeing dishonorable combat, and that is all that the dragons and their minions know."

Ciarannael considered that. "I am more than willing when that is what is needed of me, but I still ask myself if there isn't another path I could choose."

"I have seen you researching with Iowerth," She went on, still smiling. "And you are equally good at stragety as Cai. You would do well no matter what order you chose to join. But the one trait I see in you far more than any other is a desire to protect. I know that feeling well, and that is why I say you belong with us. Protecting those who cannot protect themselves is what the Vigil does."

Cirannael was silent a moment considering. His brief time studying with the Priory scholar had been as a balm for his spirit after so many battles, but then the voice from his Dream came to his mind again and he recited aloud: "Act with wisdom, but act."

Branthyn grinned. "Just so. Come, you have time to make your choice yet."

Ciarannael nodded and followed her towards the stairs that led down from the walls of the outpost, but deep down he felt he already knew. Just as she had, he would follow a Crusader back to Vigil keep and join in the fight.


	6. Stepping Out Of The Ranks

Kharasa sighted along the barrel of her old rifle and slowly squeezed the trigger. A puff of straw exploded from the target. She narrowed her eyes appraisingly at the shot. It was still hitting low and to the right. With quick efficiency she grabbed a tiny tool from the pack that sat at her feet and made a few adjustments to the weapon. The next shot hit center, but still low. A different tool, and more adjustments, the next shot was an inch to the left, but closer than before.

Over and again she adjusted the firearm and tested its aim. It was an old ritual for her, and one she had enjoyed ever since she had first gotten the weapon. She had a new, higher powered rifle in her quarters in the keep. It always fired straight; she had never needed to adjust it. This day she needed the calming familiarity of sighting in her old piece.

She wouldn't admit to any of her fellow Crusaders that the reason she was practicing with her old weapon was because she was lonely. She was used to being surrounded by her warband; friends and comrades in arms almost since birth. Clawspur sent her letters regularly, and she answered as often as she could. Though he had objected the promotion as loudly as he ever got, he was turning out to be a fine Legionnaire. Both Yahuk and Wroda respected him well and would follow him just as loyally as they had her. And though he had doubted his leadership abilities, Kharasa knew he had a good tactical head on his shoulders. He had been the only other one of their warband to survive the battle at Smokestead after all. If they were called into battle, Clawspur would make certain that the enemy never saw any of them until it was too late. He was Ash Legion to the core. She was not worried about them, she simply missed their comraderie.

She fired a final shot dead center on the target and sighed. She would have to see about getting an assignment in Charr territory soon so she could pay her 'bandmates a visit. She hadn't seen them since the day she left; when they'd toasted her and Clawspur's promotions with ale stolen from the Iron Legion barracks.

With her rifle at last shooting straight again, Kharasa put away her tools and pulled a soft cloth from her pack. As she was starting the equally soothing motions of cleaning her piece she spied a Norn Crusader approaching the shooting range. Beside her, and completely dwarfed by the giant of a woman, was a sylvari. Kharasa kept cleaning and watched the pair draw closer with mild interest. There was no one else on the range, and neither of the two bore firearms, so it was for her that they came.

The Norn was clad in the light robes of a spellcaster, and Kharasa vaguely remembered her as a necromancer that she had worked with on a brief mission some time ago. The sylvari was unknown to her. He was slight, as all of the plant people were, and made to look even more so by walking beside a Norn. He was also wearing heavy scale armor that bore the marks of past battles. The hilt of a greatsword poked up over his shoulder. And yet he still moved with the light, almost skipping gait that all sylvari affected. He wore no helm, and a short cascade of dark red leaves served as his hair. His skin was a muted grey/green that in places looked like rough bark. High cheekbones pushed up against bright red eyes, slanting them and giving his face a quizzical look. He looked young, but Kharasa wasn't sure she should trust that observation. It was always hard to tell with sylvari.

They drew up beside her and Kharasa set her cleaning cloth aside and holstered her rifle on her back.

"I've come with new orders for you from the General." The Norn spoke without preamble. "With Forgal tied up with several recruits in Ebonhawke, the General has assigned this one to you for training."

Kharasa swept her eyes back to the sylvari. Again she noted the dents and scratches on his armor; again she saw the strange mix of experience and inquisitiveness in his eyes.

"I'm Kharasa Embershard," She said to him at last. "The resident expert on long range weapons and some of our more subtle tactics."

"Ciarannael." His voice was smooth and flowing, with the lightly lilting tone that was almost as common among the plant people she had met as the skipping gait. "I wouldn't say I'm an expert or anything, but I expect that comes with experience."

The Norn snorted at that, and Kharasa held back a laugh. Sylvari and their cub-like naievete equal parts amused and exasperated her.

"The General got a report from the Lionguard at First Haven about an undead surge there." With introductions done, the Norn returned to the business at hand. "So far it isn't anything they can't handle, but one of them reported seeing one of the undead wearing a strange amulet."

That got Kharasa's attention fast. "Like the one that possessed Howl? Gahn and I destroyed that dragon crystal, it shouldn't be powering any other amulets."

The Norn nodded solemnly. "That's what we all thought. This might be something completely unrelated, or maybe somebody's found another of those crystals. The General wants you to go investigate and take action if needed. If it's nothing, then you and the recruit will be more than enough. If it is another crystal, send word and we'll send backup. First Haven is close enough to the keep that we can mobilize behind you quickly at need."

"Understood." Kharasa nodded sharply. "I've still got a few bottles of that reagent the Priory came up with to destroy the first crystal. If it is another one, we've got plenty on hand to destroy it."

The Norn saluted, and her job done, strode off back towards the keep. Kharasa shouldered her tool pack and looked up at the keep, considering if she should go retrieve the new rifle. In her mind sprang an image of Howl's reanimated dead eyes and the bullet hole she'd put right between them. No, for this job the old piece would be exactly what she needed.

"I've got what I need." Kharasa looked the sylvari up and down. A small bag was slung across his back alongside the sword. "You?"

"I am ready to go." Despite the words, his voice was more determined than eager.

"Good." Kharasa grinned with all her teeth. "Let's go for a run."

She unsheathed her claws and set out at a lope on all fours. Her pack and rifle shifted rhythmically against her back as she ran. She had expected that her longer strides would have her soon outpacing the sylvari, but Ciarannael skip-ran easily beside her, despite the obvious weight of his weapon and armor.

"Who was Howl?" He also apparently had plenty of breath to ask unwanted questions.

"A comrade." Kharasa replied shortly. She wasn't up to explaining her whole backstory to this recruit. Especially not while running cross country. "He was killed, and then raised as an undead by an amulet powered by Zhaitan's corruption."

"I once fought a sylvari in enchanted armor that let him stand back up from death again and again." Ciarannael mused as he ran. "That is the closest I have ever come to seeing someone I know reanimated. But even though I don't know, I can imagine. I am sorry you had to kill your friend."

Kharasa barked a laugh despite herself. Equal parts amusing and exasperating. "That thing hadn't been Howl in a long time. It was far easier to kill it than to watch it slander his memory. So how did you defeat your foe if he couldn't die?"

"I fought him using the smith's hammer that had made the armor."

That earned another bark of laughter. It sounded like some of the crazy things Wroda came up with. "I like you already."

Ciarannael just flashed a shy smile at that. His eyes were bright, and Kharasa was reminded suddenly of Yahuk Fellstrike when he'd managed some particularly powerful spell and looked to either her or Clawspur shyly, but eager for recognition.

Before her mind could follow that thought back into distracting homesickness, her sharp nose caught a whiff of something rotten. She pulled up short, digging her rear claws into the grass for traction. Ciarannael skidded to a halt just past her. She held up one paw to forestall any questioning on his part, and took a deeper sniff.

"I smell undead." Any earlier levity was gone. She was a Crusader again. "The Haven is still out of sight over that hill. There must be more of them than I thought."

The sylvari put a hand to his sword hilt, but didn't draw it. "I thought the Lionguard were containing them?"

Kharasa snorted. "That was only as of the last report. Come on, let's get to the Haven and find out. Walk careful."

She set off again, but more slowly this time, and with her nose carefully scanning for the scent of undead. She wasn't disappointed. The rotten smell grew stronger the closer they drew to the Lionguard Haven. By the time the stone walls of the outpost came into view, Kharasa was moving upright with with her rifle in her paws. That was when they could also see the horde of undead camped around the walls, and the hulking abomination that was doggedly pounding on the gates.

"That's quite hideous. How would one make such a thing, much less teach it to walk?" Ciarannael stared curiously at the creature that was just an animated pile of bodies for a moment before hefting his greatsword into a ready position. "That aside, what's our plan?"

Kharasa studied what she could see of the defenders on the walls. Several Lionguard were there dropping lesser undead by the scores with well placed arrows and bullets. Assuming they had enough ammunition, they could hold off the horde near indefinitely. The problem was the abomination. It was too close for the defenders to shoot at. If it got into the enclosed space, the soldiers of the outpost were done for. That thing had to be fought at a distance.

"We need to get that abomination away from the gate." Kharasa frowned. She didn't like her plan, but it was the only one that had a chance of working. The sylvari clearly preferred close combat. She worked better at range. "If I draw its attention to us, can you hold it?"

Ciarannael's expression hardened into serious determination. "I'll keep its eyes on me."

Kharasa narrowed her eyes at him. "No heroics."

He flashed a grim smile and loped off towards the beleaguered Haven. Kharasa followed until she was just close enough to guarantee a clean shot. She sighted down the barrel, doubly glad she had spent the time to sight it in, and squeezed the trigger. She sent the first shot into what she supposed was the thing's head. It was hard to tell with so many dead bodies amalgamated into one monstrosity.

The effect of the shot was immediately apparent. The abomination stopped pounding on the gate and turned towards her slowly. It shuffled forward a step, then another, and then seemed to find its new balance and began moving more swiftly towards her. It made it about half the distance when it encountered Ciarannael in its path. It stopped and stared down at this new opponent, then wound back a massive fleshy fist and punched straight downward.

The abomination hit nothing but the ground. The lithe sylvari had dodged to one side, and was already swinging his great sword at the backs of the monsters legs. Kharasa let a smirk curl across her muzzle. She pulled a small metal device from her pack and lobbed it towards the battle. It landed with a thud a short distance from the abomination and immediately began folding out into a portable flame thrower turret. A gout of flame spewed forth from the device and engulfed the abomination's knees. The monster took a step towards the new threat, but was yanked backwards by an ethereal white chain. The fire spread up the abomination's back and it howled with several voices. Kharasa put a few more bullets into the thing's chest, abandoning precision for speed and damage. She could tell the beast was weakening.

She moved closer, firing her rifle from the hip as she went. She watched Ciarannael dodge quickly backwards from another downward strike. While he had a moment of breathing room, he struck his sword into the ground point first and a glowing white symbol lit up in the trampled grass. The abomination swung through the circle, but its strike was blocked by an ethereal purple shield. White spikes pulsed in the symbol, and the creature drew back in apparent pain. Kharasa added to it with another well aimed round to the abomination's head.

Several mouths on the undead amalgamation roared as the monster rounded on her. She might have miscalculated how much fight the beast had left in it, or else it was just tapping a berserk fury in its death throes. She backpedaled slowly, but steadily, still firing. The abomination certainly felt the shots, but its heavy tread didn't falter. It stomped carelessly on the flame turnet, crushing it and losing much of its foot in the resultant explosion. Even that was not enough to halt its advance.

Kharasa grimaced and paused in her firing to load a special cartridge. What was left of the abomination was almost upon her. And then Ciarannael was there, his red eyes flashing fire. He lept between her and the beast with a blinding flash of light. The abomination flailed wildly for a second, and lost one hand to a sharp downward swing of her recruit's greatsword. The second hand connected, and this time there was no magical purple shield. Ciarannael was knocked sprawling, landing in a heap at her feet.

Kharasa fired the explosive shot she'd loaded straight into the ground, launching herself over her fallen partner and square in front of the abomination. She clubbed its remaining hand viciously, probably adding yet another dent to the battered stock of her rifle. While the beast recoiled, she loaded another cartridge. When it leaned down, maw gaping wide to swallow her whole, she fired the overpowered shot point blank into its face.

Kharasa was thrown back with the force of the recoil, but as she fell she heard the thud of the abomination hitting the ground as well. When she rolled to her feet it was with a grin of triumph. The abomination was once again dead.

She turned to find Ciarannael picking himself up slowly. He didn't seem to be injured other than bruises from being tossed.

"I thought I said no heroics, sprout." She chided him, but she was grinning toothily.

Ciarannael stared at her a moment, then seemed to catch her good humor and realize he wasn't actually being scolded. He waved one hand to the remains of the abomination. "What about you then?"

"Priveleges of rank." She barked a laugh and settled her rifle on her shoulder. "Let's go help the Lionguard clean up."

He nodded and the determination quickly stole over his expression once more. Kharasa took note of the change in his demeanor when battle was imminent. She wouldn't soon forget the fire she had seen in his eyes when he leaped to her rescue, either. This one was a protector. With a brief pang she thought of Dinky, and how often his eyes had blazed like that. But for the first time since joining the Vigil, even when thinking of her 'bandmates past and present, she didn't feel lonely. They were all equal parts amusing and exasperating too. Strange as he was, the sprout actually made things feel a little like home.


	7. A Whisper Revealed

Mikel had been tracking the trio of sylvari for three days. So far they had led him deeper into the Maguuma Jungle than he had ever been, and they showed no signs of stopping yet. He had followed them from well within the edge of Krytan territory, and now they were into the lands inhabited primarily by sylvari and asura. Not that Mikel had seen any of those peoples since crossing the border. The ones he was tracking were being careful to avoid inhabited areas.

Tybalt and he had been assigned to spy out a meeting between a group of Krytan bandits and nightmare court sylvari. Intel had come to the Order of Whispers from their contact within the Shining Blade that the two groups might be seeking an alliance, or at least a trade of supplies and services. When the Shining Blade contact had also implied that the bandits might be linked with, or possibly even members of the White Mantle, Mikel had all but volunteered himself and his partner for the mission.

Tybalt had agreed to the mission amicably, and the two of them had hidden withing earshot of the meeting. Whether the rumor of the White Mantle involvement was true or not, the bandits and the sylvari did seem to be negotiating a mutually beneficial trade agreement. Determined to find out more, Mikel and Tybalt split up to each follow a faction of the negotiations as they separated. Tybalt had insisted on tracking the bandits himself, knowing the possibility of such an assignment turning very dangerously personal for his partner. Mikel had protested, but he knew Tybalt was right. They had both determined to move on from the past. He would have to thank the Charr when they next reunited, perhaps over a cider.

Mikel shoved all thoughts of bandits and White Mantle aside. He focused on moving silently through the dense forest, on catching signs of the nightmare courtiers he was tracking. They moved quickly, but with a casual disregard for their surroundings. They left a trail that any Whispers initiate would be able to follow. But, as beings born of the forest, they seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of what paths were easier to travel. More than once they had outdistanced him because they found a path hidden beneath seemingly inpenetrable foliage. As far as Mikel could tell, however, they still had no idea they were being followed. He had always moved quietly and stepped lightly, and his training with the order had turned that into silence and invisibility.

Voices sounded from in front of him and brought him up short. Mikel listened intently, and knew immediately that there were more voices than just the three he had been following. He chanced moving closer to get a look. Before him was a broad depression between the roots of three enormous trees. Twining between and among the roots and trunks were thick and thorny vines. They appeared to almost form a sort of wall enclosing the wide valley. Mikel could see little through the thick greenery, but the three nightmare courtiers he had followed stood with a fourth near a narrow opening in the brambles. It was a camp, then. The sylvari had led him back to one of their bases. He waited until the four had disappeared into the enclosure before he began carefully moving closer. Perhaps he could get close enough to the walls to listen in on their plans.

He approached the thorn wall cautiously, as close to the door as he dared. The mass of vines was dense, but not solid, and he could see through it to some extent. With a little work, he could probably even slip through and into the camp at need. For now he simply crouched as comfortably and silently as he could to listen in.

"...are already selling stolen supplies to the centaurs." Mikel missed the first part of the sentence, but he recognized the voice as one of the courtiers had had followed. "It didn't take much for them to agree to trade with us as well."

"Never mind that." A second voice, thick with excitement, cut in. "We caught a real prize while you were gone! He's a wyld hunt valiant!"

"So? What's one valiant?"

"This one is special." A third sylvari interjected smoothly. "He's the one Caithe has been taking under her wing."

"The favorite of a firstborn?" The first sylvari seemed to be reluctantly catching the excitement of the others. "If he is Caithe's protégé he'll not easily be awakened to nightmare."

The second voice giggled maliciously. "Oh no, he's far too good for that. But the Knight of Thorns will open his eyes to the truth, or break him trying. The pet valiant of Caithe deserves no lesser touch than that of a knight!"

"The knight has returned?"

"Not yet." The smooth voiced sylvari spoke again. "But he is due to arrive soon. You can give your report to him then."

The voices moved off and Mikel could catch no more of their conversation. He frowned as he weighed his options. He wasn't likely to get anything else about the alliance with the bandits. The courtiers seemed far more interested in whomever they'd captured. At the same time, he was in a position to be able to sneak into the camp while the leader was away and the rest were distracted. He could at the very least make an attempt to free the captive. He was on his own, however, and he would be badly outnumbered once inside the camp. Mikel turned to look through the vines once more. Grenth take the odds. Here was something he could do. He was an Agent of Whispers. Those courtiers would never know he was there.

Mikel could see no guard at the door of the camp, and thought that strange. Then again, they were in a remote part of the jungle and he had seen no other sylvari nearby. Perhpaps the vine wall was more to keep out wildlife than anything else. Still, he avoided the door, as it was clearly visible from almost all parts of the camp. Instead he chose a spot in the brambles where the vines grew slightly further apart, and the root of a tree provided visual cover from the interior of the valley. He slid his knife from his belt and quietly cut through a handful of the thick vines. As soon as he had a wide enough opening, Mikel silently slipped through. He swept the camp with his eyes from behind the cover of the root. His luck was holding so far. All the courtiers in the camp seemed to be clustered at the far end from the door, lounging about on various pieces of foliage and talking animatedly amongst themselves.

Directly across the camp from where he was hidden, Mikel spotted what could only be the captive valiant. The sylvari was kneeling under the arch of a giant tree root, with his arms held up against the wood by thick tangles of green vines. Unlike the nightmare courtiers who seemed to be clad in petals and leaves, this sylvari wore plain leather and cloth such as someone might wear as padding under armor. His head hung low and the curtain of dark red leaves that made up his hair obscured his face. Mikel wasn't certain the sylvari was even conscious.

Mikel scanned the camp again, but it seemed that none of the courtiers were paying their captive any mind. Clearly they thought he was well and truly caught. There wasn't even anyone keeping watch. Mikel whispered a quick invocation and felt the power of air rush through him. Earth was by far the element he was strongest with, but for this, stealth and speed would serve him better than battle. With the power of the wind granting speed to his steps, Mikel slipped out from behind his root cover and swiftly crossed the open camp.

The captive sylvari didn't stir at his approach. Mikel crouched down beside the valiant, partially hidden from the view of the courtiers by the root he was bound to. Mikel gently laid a hand on the sylvari's shoulder. The captive still did not wake. Up close Mikel could see the valiant's grey/green skin was streaked with red in bark-like patterns. Shallow cuts and rust brown bruises marred those patterns in half a dozen places. Mikel glanced about the camp to raffirm that he would not be spotted. He was more determined than ever to get the valiant out before he was left to the mercies of a knight of the court.

Mikel tightened his grip on the captive's shoulder and gave it a slight shake. At that the sylvari jerked as far away from the touch as the vines holding him would allow. His head flew up and bright red eyes locked onto Mikel's. Then, as they stared at each other silently, the fear and defiance in those red eyes melted into quizzical confusion.

"Easy." Mikel whispered quietly and reached for the nearest vines. "I'm getting you out of here."

Without waiting for a response, Mikel used his knife to slice through the binding vines. The sylvari seemed to relax a little now that he knew he was not being tormented further, but the confusion in his eyes remained. Once free, the sylvari staggered to his feet. Mikel moved quickly to support him. He kept his knife drawn and his magic ready, however. They weren't out of the camp yet.

The sylvari moved near silently, but not overly quickly. Clearly he was fatigued from being held captive for however long. Mikel decided that crossing the open camp so slowly would not be a good idea, and he steered them to the nearest vine wall. He'd look for another thin spot he could cut through, and failing that they could follow the wall to the door. It was risky, but the courtiers still seemed to be occupied amongst themselves.

The vine wall was thicker on that side, it seemed. Mikel had not seen anywhere with thin enough vines for his knife to cut through. They had made it about halfway along the wall to the door when a handful of leafy figures stepped into the gap in the vines. The sylvari tensed beside him, and Mikel pulled him into the shadows of a root that rose amongst the vine wall. From that hiding spot, Mikel watched the newcomers closely. All of them were clad in artfully grown foliage and were clearly members of the nightmare court. Three of them were showing deference to the fourth who could only be the Knight of Thorns the others had spoken of. A big, black fern mastiff paced at the knight's heels.

Mikel watched warily as the group passed into the camp. If he and the valiant could only escape detection, then they could slip out of the camp behind the group. On the other hand, once the group got to where the valiant had been bound, they would certainly be alerted to his escape and come searching. The valiant shifted behind him, and Mikel put a hand on the sylvari's arm to steady him. The knight and his entourage were almost past.

Just then the fern mastiff stopped and swung his leafy muzzle towards where they hid. Mikel froze, hardly daring to breathe. The knight strode on, still speaking quietly with the courtiers flanking him. Then the mastiff howled and all four courtiers halted in alarm.

Mikel gripped his knife tightly in his left hand. He knew the game was up as soon as he saw the smirk on the knight's face as he approached their hiding place. Like a shot, Mikel flew out from the shadows of the root, riding on a rush of lightning to land right in front of the mastiff's face. He tossed his knife to his right hand and wrapped himself in a field of electrical energy. The hound lunged at him, but pulled back with a yip when he hit the field. The stunned mastiff staggered and quick lash of lightning arcing from the knife silenced him for good.

Lazy applause followed the crackling of the lighting, and Mikel looked over to the knight in surprise and suspicion. The nightmare court knight stood easily confident before him, still smirking as he clapped. Two of his entourage had already grabbed a hold of the valiant again, and were dragging him back into the open clearing. The valiant was struggling, but Mikel could tell earlier fights of this sort had already taken their toll. Getting them both out free and alive was up to the elementalist alone.

"Are you friend of his?" The knight drawled with a lilt of humor in his dark voice. "Or are you just a wandering do-gooder trying to be noble? It hardly matters. Nightmare has laid claim to him."

Mikel tightened his grip on his knife. No way would he just accept that. The valiant was still doggedly fighting, and he would too. He sprang to close the distance and thrust his knife towards the knight. A bolt of lightning leapt off the blade and into the nightmare sylvari. The Knight of Thorns stumbled a step backwards as the electric surge sapped his strength. Mikel charged another arcing lash of lightning at the tip of his blade even as the knight drew an arm back for a strike of his own. Mikel let fly the charged electricity and stepped quickly backwards to avoid the knight's open handed attack. The knight flung a burst of pollen from his open hand even as he was struck by the lightning.

Mikel caught the cloud of pollen square on, and nearly doubled over coughing violently. Whatever the pollen was, it was clogging his throat and lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe. Through his gasping he heard the knight approaching and desperately shifted his knife back to his left hand. He leapt backwards on a sudden gust of wind that also forced the knight backwards a few paces. Mikel was still gasping around the pollen and dropped to his knees. The cloying powder seemed to drain his strength even as it blocked off his airway. He fell forward onto one hand, still coughing. His vision was blurring around the edges as he struggled to breathe. Voices shouting and sounds of battle registered only dimly beyond his own gasping.

With his free hand, Mikel gestured desperately in the air beside him, tracing out a glyph of healing. The rush of magic through the symbol he'd drawn restored him a little. He was still coughing, and his breath was still short, but he could at last breathe again.

He levered himself to one knee and looked up. He gaped at how the battlefield had changed since he had fallen. The three courtiers of the knight's entourage lay nearby either unconscious or dead. Two of them were smoldering. Strange blue flames flickered weakly in a ring around the remaining two combatants. The Knight of Thorns was grinning as he threw himself towards the valiant. Though he had clearly been able to take out the three other courtiers, the valiant struggled to dodge the attack of the knight. His evasion fell short, and the knight was able to knock the valiant against another of the protruding tree roots. Almost immediately binding vines grew and tightened around one of the valiant's wrists, holding him fast to the woody root. Still the captured sylvari struggled and lashed out with his free hand. The Knight of Thorns grinned contemptuously as he caught hold of the valiant's free arm. The knight drew a long, leaf bladed knife from his belt and without warning sunk it to the hilt in the valiant's abdomen. The pained cry of the valiant was punctuated by the thunk of the blade hitting the wood of the root behind him.

Mikel froze in horror as he watched, still gasping for air and balanced on one knee. The knight released the valiant's hand and it fell limply to the sylvari's side. Mikel could tell only the knife and the vines holding his other arm were keeping the valiant upright. The sylvari's red eyes flashed fire at the knight, but it was nearly buried beneath pain and weariness.

"Stay right there and wait your turn, leaflet." The knight drawled, still grinning. "This human's memories won't go to the Pale Tree, but my memories of torturing him may, and he will be good practice before I get to you."

At the threat to him, Mikel finally got his other foot planted and made his way determinedly to his feet. The words seemed to awaken something in the valiant as well. His eyes blazed defiance again, and his free hand slowly came to rest upon the hilt of the knife that was buried in his gut. Still weak and wheezing from the pollen, Mikel knew his chances against the knight we slim. He also didn't care. If he didn't do something, that valiant clearly would, and it would probably mean the sylvari's death. Grenth take the odds, this was something he could do. He was an Agent of Whispers. The knight would never know what hit him.

In a low voice made harsh by the pollen still choking him, Mikel growled out the words of another elemental invocation.

_"I can move mountains!"_


	8. A Guardian Guarded

Ciarannael sagged against the root and tried simply to keep breathing. The vines coiled taut around his right wrist and the leaf bladed dagger pinning him to the root were all that kept him standing. Weaponless and already weary from battling the courtiers, he had not stood a chance against the Knight of Thorns.

"Stay right there and wait your turn, leaflet." The knight's voice was laced with cruel laughter. "This human's memories won't go to the Pale Tree, but my memories of torturing him may, and he will be good practice before I get to you."

At the knight's words, desperation rose in him again. Ciarannael summoned what strength he had remaining, and found the hilt of the dagger with his left hand. The human stranger had sought to help him, and he would not let such kindness be repaid with the sort of depravity the nightmare court dealt in.

Ciarannel looked over to the human to find the man struggling to his feet, though he was clearly still having trouble breathing. Pale yellow pollen dusted his short, silvery purple hair and the shoulders of his long dark robes. Despite the clear weakness in his body, the human's grip on his knife was sure, and his grey eyes were as hard and sharp as steel.

_"I can move mountains!"_ The man's voice was rough and raspy, but the words carried all the strength of stone.

The Knight of Thorns grinned and slowly started to turn to face the human again. Ciarannael wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife in his abdomen, but for all his determination, he could not summon the strength to pull it free. He was pinned and helpless as the human took on his fight for him.

With a guttural cry, the human thrust the hand that wielded his dagger sharply into the air. At the same instant, a narrow spike of smooth stone erupted from the ground, impaling the knight's foot and carving a deep gash in his leg. The stone spike sank back into the earth as suddenly as it came, leaving the knight bleeding and off balance. The human lunged forward before the knight could recover and swept his dagger in a broad arc. With a rumbling crack, a dense forest of stone spikes erupted upwards in a ring around the elementalist, and returned to the earth just as quickly. The knight, impaled by half a dozen of the sharp stones, fell heavily, his dark golden sap seeping out to stain the leaves.

Both Ciarannel and the human stared for a long moment at the fallen knight, but the nightmare sylvari didn't stir. Ciarannel doubted the knight was truly dead, but he was surely sorely injured.

Shouts from the far side of the nightmare camp startled them both out of their staring. In the heat of battle Ciarannael had almost forgotten that the knight and his retinue were not the only enemies at hand. The human was quickly before him, scanning the approaching courtiers with a steely gaze. He shifted his dagger to his left hand and slashed the binding vines holding Ciarannael's wrist. In almost the same motion he nudged aside the sylvari's fingers and gripped the hilt of the knight's leaf bladed knife.

"Sorry." The one clipped word was all the warning Ciarannel had. The human locked eyes with him for barely a heartbeat, then yanked the dagger free.

Pain blazed in his middle, blocking out his vision, and Ciarannael struggled to stay propped against the root. When he came to seconds later, he saw the human had moved away to meet the oncoming courtiers, the leaf bladed knife brandished in his right hand and still dripping with golden sap. As the nightmare sylvari drew closer, the man stretched one hand down towards the earth until the point of his knife nearly touched the ground and held the other brandished boldly before him. A low rumbling began that Ciarannael could feel more than actually hear, and as he watched the very earth itself began to roil in the area around the elementalist. Those hard and steely grey eyes stayed fiercely pinned on the courtiers who were almost upon him, but the man's focus was clearly on the power he was channeling beneath their feet. The churning of the earth grew stronger, throwing off the steps of the nearest nightmare sylvari. Finally, something flashed in those grey eyes, and the man slammed the knife in his left hand flat against the ground. Jagged rocks burst from the earth in a field far wider and denser than that which brought down the Knight of Thorns. By the time the reverberating crack of the quaking earth had faded, so too had the screams of the courtiers who'd been caught in the blast zone.

The man stood straight, staring down the remaining few nightmare courtiers, then finally turned away and slid both knives into his belt. Ciarannael moved in something of a shock as the human came up beside him and helped him to stand.

"Let's hurry and get out of here before they realize I can't do that again." The man spoke low and intense in his ear as he slipped the sylvari's arm over his shoulders.

Ciarannael nodded faintly and tried to walk as best he could. He kept one hand clamped around the wound in his middle. It still seeped a steady flow of sap, and every movement pulled at it painfully. The wound itself wouldn't kill him, but the loss of sap could.

They made it out the door of the nightmare camp before they heard the courtiers rallying behind them. The human quickened his pace, and Ciarannael kept with him through sheer determination. More than once the elementalist fell into a violent coughing fit, but each time the steel returned to his eyes and he took up the bulk of Ciarannael's weight once again.

The human was taller than him by nearly a head, as many humans were, but he was built no thicker than the sylvari. Ciarannael had little focus to spare for anything other than placing one foot in front of the other, but he tried to carry as much of his own weight as he could. He tried more than once to call upon his healing magic, but his magic was drained far past the point of responding to him until he had a chance to rest. Every attempt he made threatened to send him spiraling into unconsciousness.

Ciarannael very quickly lost all track of how far they had gone, or even in what direction. He could hear no nightmare courtiers behind them, and that was enough. The day was beginning to fade into evening. They splashed into a stream, followed its length for a while, and then stepped again upon the earth of the jungle floor. At long last the human led them into the shelter of a giant tree's roots. The hollow formed at the base of the tree was dim and shadowed. Ciarannael all but collapsed against one of the roots when the man released him.

The human fell to his knees inside the hollow, coughing again. In between the gasps a few words were clear. "...power...like a tidal wave..."

A cold blue light sprung up around the man's left hand, where he was again gripping the hilt of his sheathed knife. With his right hand he traced a glowing glyph in the air. Almost immediately his coughing subsided and his breathing seemed to ease, though his face was still drawn and pale.

Ciarannael sank into a sitting position propped against the tree root, and gingerly poked at his middle. "This is definitely the worst yet." He mused to himself.

"They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." The human rasped in a hoarse voice. He had produced a length of cloth from somewhere on his person, and now crouched beside the sylvari. Ciarannael managed to lean forward and lift his padded leather shirt. The stab wound revealed looked ghastly, and he briefly wondered if even his armor would have prevented it.

"Who is they?" He asked through clenched teeth as the human tied off the bandage.

The man again put his left hand to his dagger hilt, but this time he laid the other across the sylvari's freshly bandaged middle. Almost immediately a refreshing wetness seeped through the layers of cloth. As soon as the water hit his skin, Ciarannel felt the pain of the injury lessen. He could almost feel his flesh regrowing. Clearly the water was a powerful healing spell. Once the entire bandage was saturated, the man withdrew his hand and shrugged with a weary smirk.

"Who knows?" He nudged Ciarannel back against the tree root with a gentle push.

The sylvari opened his mouth to ask further, but froze when the man fell into another bout of violent coughing. The human nearly collapsed against another of the tree's roots. Even when the fit had passed he sat slumped and still, his breath coming in short rasps. His face was so pale that the silvery purple stubble on his jaw seemed almost as a shadow.

"That wasn't just pollen." Ciarannael couldn't believe it had taken him so long to realize it. "It was poison."

The grey eyes turned to him. There was no hard steel left in them. They were just tired, pained, and even a little frightened. "Will it kill me?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." The man didn't seem reassured, and Ciarannael tried again. "The nightmare court is fond of poisons, but they rarely go out of their way to harm other races."

"That knight seemed pretty eager to harm me."

"I have a vial of antidote that counteracts most of their poisons." Ciarannael said more brightly in response to the defeat he heard in the man's tone; then he realized that wasn't helpful either. "But it's back in that camp with the rest of my gear. Neither of us is in much shape to go fetch it. Can your healing water cure you?"

The man barked out a bitter laugh that ended in a cough. "I'm trying, but my healing glyph only helps so much, and as my energy is drained it'll do less and less."

"Getting poisoned is poor thanks for rescuing me." Ciarannael let both his eyes and voice drop sadly. "I am sorry."

The human snorted. "What's your name?"

The sylvari looked up, startled by the sudden steadiness in the man's voice. "Ciarannel."

The man gave a weary smile. The grey eyes held not steel exactly, but a steady sort of resignation. "I'm Mikel Beltere, and I'm not sorry I helped you, poison be damned. Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why was it so important to those courtiers that you are a friend to Caithe?"

Ciarannael didn't know what Mikel had overheard, but he could guess. "Do you know Caithe?"

Mikel shrugged faintly. "I know of her through Logan, and have seen her once, but we've never spoken."

"Caithe lost someone she held dear to the nightmare. She has never forgiven them for taking her love, and it has made her both cold and implacable. Ever her love seeks to corrupt her too, and the more they try, the more Caithe resists. The courtiers think that breaking someone she has finally allowed to grow close might truly break her at last. Also she is a firstborn, and therefore has a powerful effect upon the Pale Tree and the Dream. Her fall into the nightmare would be a great victory for the court."

"That's why they singled you out?"

Ciarannel nodded. "Though the court will hardly pass up any chance to do evil."

Mikel fell to coughing, but soon found his voice again. "They sound a lot like the bandits. No wonder they're allying."

"Bandits?"

"They've been plagueing Kryta. They prey on travelers and remote homesteads, stealing, killing, you name it." Mikel shrugged again. "Now they're supplying the centaurs and the nightmare court. As far as anyone can tell their only desire is to watch the world burn. Though if the rumors are true...well, nevermind about that."

"What rumors?" Ciarannel was doubly curious at the strange anger in the human's voice when he spoke of them.

"Forget it." Mikel's voice turned cold. "The last thing I need right now is to—"

The human stopped sharply at a rustling in the foliage nearby. He stood slowly, one hand holding to the root for support. His other went to his mouth, holding in a coughing fit with an almost visible force of will. The faint rustle sounded again, closer this time. Mikel crossed their small root hollow with an amazing lack of sound. In his long dark robes he almost disappeared in the shadows cast by the fading sunset. Faint luminescence from nearby plants was the only light to give him away.

Ciarannel struggled to his own feet. His wound protested the movement, but he persisted. He would not let Mikel stand alone on his behalf against the nightmare court again. He took a step forward, but halted when Mikel gestured sharply for him to be silent.

Mikel slid both his own knife and the knight's leaf bladed dagger from his belt. If he whispered any elemental invocation, Ciarannel could not hear it. Unlike when he was channeling his healing magic before, there was no pale glow about his hands. He held himself still and silent. Then the rustling of foliage sounded again, very close this time.

Mikel sprang out from the shadows. In the same instant a large figure emerged from around the roots circling their hiding place. The elementalist stopped short, with hands glowing and knives held ready, and a darkly gleaming rifle barrel aimed at his face.

Ciarannael lurched forward another step. He recognized the steel that had returned to Mikel's grey eyes. He also recognized who was holding the rifle.

"Kharasa, stand down. It's alright, he rescued me."

The white paws holding the rifle didn't so much as twitch, but the Charr's blue eyes flicked over to him for an instant. "You vouch for him, Sprout?"

Mikel seemed to relax a little at the words, but he didn't lower his knives.

"Yes." Ciarannael hastened to reply before things could go horribly wrong.

Kharasa snorted and slid her rifle through the straps of her bulging tool pack. She straightened and regarded the elementalist with a toothy smirk. "Then I owe you thanks for rescuing my partner. I'm Kharasa Embershard of the Vigil."

Mikel nodded and sheathed his knives. The glow about his hands quickly faded. "Mikel Beltere, Agent of Whispers and—"

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by violent coughing. Tension no longer lent him strength, and the elementalist lost the battle of will against the posion pollen. Mikel began drawing his healing glyph shakily as he hacked and gasped. He had only traced part of it when his legs buckled and he collapsed bonelessly forward.


	9. A Vigil Kept

Kharasa swore inwardly as a large leaf caught and rustled against her tool pack. The sound was loud in her sensitive ears, but she hoped it was still quiet enough to be missed by other races. Sylvari had no better hearing than humans. Still, the noise rankled. She was Ash Legion, trained to move quietly. Unfortunately she had been so trained in the rocky plains and thin woods of Ascalon. The dense jungles of Maguuma were something else entirely.

A trail that should have been plain to her was becoming difficult to follow. She was used to finding footprints amongst grass and stone. The thick leaf cover of this forest showed little trace of anyone's passing. Drops of golden sap had been her only guide. The ammount of sap the sprout had left behind alarmed her, but even that trail had tapered off to merely a spotting here and there. In the changing of the light from sun to luminescent plants, even that evidence was becoming hard to see. Her acute sense of smell was even less helpful. There were far too many plants close around her to catch the scent of a single sylvari.

She made it a few more silent steps before she rustled another leaf. This time she didn't swear. Another noise followed hers. She went silent and still, but so too did whatever else was in the forest. She inched forward as quietly as she could and kept listening. Something was there, something that wasn't really a sound, but that tickled her ears nonetheless. It was something she probably wouldn't have felt at all if she wasn't listening so intently. It was like Yahuk, she realized with a start. It was the same barely noticeable hum as when the cub was preparing to cast magic, attuning himself and readying a spell.

Kharasa's eyes narrowed and she took firmer hold of her rifle. That wasn't the sprout's magic she felt. His came entirely from within instead of attuning to and channeling the energies around him. There was some other spell caster nearby.

She halted just beside a shadowed hollow formed from the arching roots of an enormous tree. The magical hum was coming from there, she was sure of it. She stepped briskly around the root, and right into another patch of rustling foliage. At the same instant a dark figure sprang at her from out of the hollow. Kharasa whipped up her rifle even as a new scent broke through the myriad smells of the forest. The dark figure was human. Her nose knew it before her eyes did, and it was the only reason the man in front of her wasn't sporting a bullet hole already.

He brandished a pair of knives and a cold blue glow wreathed his hands. He was undoubtedly an elementalist. But he was also just as clearly not a member of the nightmare court. Kharasa kept this strange human square in her sights, however. The dagger in his left hand looked like those grown by the sylvari, and had a tell tale crusting of brown sap on the edge.

"Stand down, Kharasa." The smooth, lilting voice was weary, but never more welcome. "It's alright, he rescued me."

Kharasa kept her rifle trained on the human, but flicked her gaze over to Ciarannael. The sylvari stood unsteadily a few steps behind the human, with one arm wrapped around his middle. He was watching the standoff with clear concern in his red eyes.

"You vouch for him, Sprout?"

"Yes." Ciarannael answered without hesitation.

Kharasa was watching the human again. She could see the wheels turning behind those grey eyes. The tips of the daggers dropped a fraction. Kharasa bared one fang in a brief smirk and lowered her rifle. When the human relaxed his own stance, she slid her piece carefully back into it's place under the straps of her tool pack. It was a tough squeeze with all the extra gear stuffed into and strapped to her pack.

"Then I owe you thanks for rescuing my partner." She nodded towards Ciarannel and let her smirk widen. "I' am Kharasa Embershard of the Vigil."

The tension dropped from the human's stance like a heavy cloak. He slid both knives into his belt, and when he looked back at her his grey eyes had lost much of their steel. "Mikel Beltere, Agent of Whispers, and I-"

He didn't get another word out before he began coughing roughly. One hand went to his throat, and the other was shakily tracing glowing marks in the air. Whatever spell he was trying to cast, he didn't manage it before his knees buckled and he pitched forward.

Kharasa acted on reflex and hooked a paw around the man's chest before he could hit the ground. A pained noise came not from the human, but from Ciarannael, who had lunged forward as well, and was now seemingly struggling to stay upright.

"I've got him, Spout." Kharasa studied her partner even as she gently lowered Mikel so she wasn't so awkwardly holding him up. "You sit. You've gone all grey."

He did so, and even though his usually green tinted skin was looking a bit ashen, Kharasa assessed that the Whispers agent who was still coughing weakly needed her attention first. She'd gotten him more or less seated, but she was still propping him up with a paw across his chest. Even though his coughing had subsided she could still feel the rasping of his shallow breaths. His short, silvery purple hair was darkened by sweat even in the cool night air. He was smaller than she had first thought. He was a human, so of course he was small compared to her, but her paw nearly spanned the width of his torso. When they had faced off he had actually come close to being eye level to her, though admittedly she stood hunched over. He was tall for a human, but barely broader than Ciarannael.

"He was poisoned by the nightmare court." Ciarannael answered the question she hadn't yet asked.

Kharasa scowled and eased the human into a seated position, leaning against one of the giant roots. He seemed only on the verge of consciousness. Poison was a nasty thing. Some of the Flame Legion's shadowblades used poisoned daggers. It rarely ended well for their victims.

"How long?" She caught Ciarannael's eye, silently telling him not to soften the news. Mikel probably already knew his fate, and if he didn't he was likely too far out of it to care anymore anyway.

To her surprise, Ciarannael shook his glowing head not in resignation, but in genuine confusion. "I don't know. If he were a sylvari he would likely already be dead. That poison was not meant for humans. I had an antidote that may have helped, but the courtiers have it now, along with the rest of my gear."

At that Kharasa grinned toothily. "Then it's good I got it back." She carefully dropped the bulging tool pack to the ground beside her and started rummaging. It had been a tight fit, but she had rescued all she had seen of her partner's equipment. She had never been so glad he was a puny plant before. She'd never have been able to carry back a full set of heavy armor sized for a Charr or a Norn. The greatsword had been enough of a challenge, but she'd finally just strapped it beside her rifle. Between the pieces of splint mail she at last found the small supply bag the sprout always carried. Within were numerous unidentifiable things, but one was a small wooden vial.

"This it?" She held the vial up for him to see, wondering not for the first time why even their vessels were made from plants.

"Yes. Only give him half. That is not made for humans either, and I'd hate to poison him worse."

Kharasa barked a laugh and dug into another pocket of the pack. Her claws clinked against familar glass bottles as she sifted through the various elixirs. Finally she found the one with an "H" carved in the stopper and pulled it free.

She turned back to the Whispers agent and found him watching her with fever-bright eyes. Maybe he wasn't as out of it as she thought. Still, he hadn't moved at all from where she'd left him, and his face was still pallid, even for a human.

"Alright." She crouched beside him and unstoppered the wooden vial. "Half of this."

He took the vial with shaking fingers, and Kharasa had to put a paw on his ridiculously small hand to steady it while he drank. She was careful to keep her claws sheathed. When he'd managed to get half the antidote down she recapped the vial and tossed it back towards her pack. She popped the cork out of her healing elixir and held the bottle for him to drink. No way was she trusting him with the much heavier glass bottle.

"Chase it with some of this. It can't hurt your recovery, and it probably tastes better."

Mikel managed a wry smile at that, and actually got both hands up to hold the bottle on his own. Either he was just stubborn, or the antidote worked quickly. Once he had a few good swallows of elixir in him, Kharasa leaned back and looked him over. He didn't appear much different, but his breathing already sounded easier. Kharasa nodded and turned away, on to her next charge.

Ciarannael smiled faintly at her approach. This was hardly the first time she'd had to play medic to the sprout. She kept her face stern, but it was hard. "Where are you hurt?"

"Cut and bruised in about a dozen places," He was still smiling. Equal parts amusing and exasperating. His grin faded as he leaned forward and lifted his shirt, though. "But I think this is the worst."

Kharasa's eyes went wide as she crouched at his side. She reached with one paw and stopped just shy of touching the sap soaked bandage around his middle. "A gut wound?"

His face scrunched in confusion at her horrified tone, then quickly softened. "Don't worry. I have no organs there, and the flesh will grow back." His sheepish smile returned. "Though it does go all the way through."

Kharasa took a deep breath and considered throttling him for a moment. It was a pleasant fantasy. Instead she pushed the bottle of elixir into his hand and started unwrapping the bandage. Indeed, instead of torn flesh as she would have seen on a Charr, there was simply what looked like a hole cut through wood. Golden sap still leaked sluggishly from the wound, but as he had said, already the plant fibers had begun to regrow and were swiftly closing the injury.

"There isn't near enough wound here for all the sap."

"Mikel has a healing potion too."

"..not a potion, just water magic." The human's voice was hoarse, but steady. When Kharasa turned to regard him, he looked far better than before. She nodded both thanks and approval that the antidote had done it's work, and returned to her ministrations. When she had Ciarannael's wound freshly wrapped she shoved him gently back to lean against the tree root.

"Drink that, all of it." She nodded towards the elixir he still held, and used the tone that brooked no argument. "You've lost a lot of sap, and it'll help heal up the rest besides."

Though he grinned cheekily at her command voice, he did as he was told. "Thanks for finding me." He said finally once the bottle was drained.

She took the bottle and just barely managed to keep her stern face in place. "Thank me by resting." Seeing he was about to protest, she held up a paw and went on. "Don't worry, my turrets and I will keep watch."

Ciarannael relented and gingerly laid down in the curve of the root. That he made no further protest told Kharasa the sprout was far more exhausted than he would have her believe. She watched him silently for a moment, until she was certain he was asleep. True to her word, she dug a portable flame thrower turret out of her pack and unfolded it on the edge of the root hollow. Anything that wandered too close to their little camp would get a nasty surprise. She turned to keep her own vigil on the other side of the small hollow and found a pair of grey eyes watching her intently. The human had been so quiet; she had almost forgotten he was there.

"It looks like the antidote has done its work." She found her own seat amongst the roots where she could keep watch on both the forest and her companions.

Mikel nodded. His face had lost its deathly pallor and his breathing was even. "That or your elixir, thank you."

Kharasa shrugged off his thanks brusquely. "You can thank me by resting too."

"How did you find us?"

It was clear that Mikel was going to be more stubborn about it than the sprout. She sighed and relented. "I was tracking the courtiers that took Cirarannael ever since he got grabbed. Their camp wasn't hard to find since several of them were screaming. I threw a couple of flash grenades and a turret into the middle of it, and slipped in. It didn't take long to figure out that they didn't have him anymore. I grabbed his stuff and booked it out. It took some doing to find the trail of blood he was leaving, but once I did it led right to here."

Mikel shook his head and sighed. "I'm glad you did, but I should be demoted back to initiate if I was leaving a trail you could find so fast. We're lucky the nightmare court hasn't followed as well."

"You left them in some disarray, and I obscured the trail behind me." Kharasa snorted. As a spy herself she was actually a little impressed by how well this one had hidden from her. "As it happens, I didn't find _your_ trail at all. I figured the carnage at the camp was too much for him to have done on his own, but I didn't know Sprout wasn't alone until I saw you. I'm Ash Legion, trained from childhood in infiltration and stealth. There isn't much I miss."

The Whispers agent blinked once then looked away somewhat awkwardly. "You said he's your partner? So he's member of the Vigil too?"

Kharasa nodded, but her answer was terse. "Yes. He was a recruit put under my command shortly after I became a Crusader. When he was promoted I requested for us to be made permanent partners."

"So you could look after him?"

That earned him a glare. "Are you always this curious about things that aren't your business? Besides, you should be resting too."

Instantly Mikel's face turned from curious to contrite. "I'm sorry, you're right. Threats to my life always take me this way. I can't sleep and can't keep my mind from wondering about things I probably shouldn't. Just ignore me."

Even as he said the last words he was turning to face the dark of the forest. He was sitting at ease against the root, but still somehow seemed tense. His grey eyes stared out at nothing.

Kharasa sighed inwardly. Why did the sprout have to get himself hurt and leave her with a stubborn pup of a human?

"An agent of the Whispers?" She relented at last and was rewarded with a startled look as the grey eyes turned back to her. "You must not get much sleep then. Or have very patient comrades."

Mikel laughed a little, but it was without humor. "Not much at all. My partner Tybalt took to telling stories when I get like this, but lately we've been sent on missions that keep us separated."

Something in the way he said it pricked at her ears. "You're very used to being alone, aren't you?"

"I...I suppose I am, at least where threats to my life are concerned. I would never bring my friends into something like this."

It was a concept nearly foreign to Kharasa. She could not imagine wanting her friends to stay behind instead of watching her back as she watched theirs. It was something she'd only encountered upon joining the vigil; for the other races there were those who did not or would not fight. Not just cubs or children, but able adults. Others were content to protect those who would not protect themselves. It seemed to be a choice, and was respected. Kharasa didn't think it was necessarily a bad way, but it was certainly not the Charr way. All Charr were born to battle. Clearly this human had not been.

"What do you do when you can't question a stranger?"

"I read until I fall asleep into the pages." Mikel answered softly with a wry lilt. "When I can't do that, well, let's just say I am getting used to working two days on one night's sleep."

Kharasa nodded, and Mikel again turned his gaze to the shadows and glowing plants of the forest. Silence spread between them. Kharasa studied the human for another few moments. His posture was still betraying his tension, but true to his earlier word, he asked her no further questions.

"He reminds me of a member of my warband; several of them in fact, but one in particular." Kharasa ignored the surprised look Mikel shot her way and spoke on. "Dinky was the smallest of our year in the fahrar. He had to work harder than anyone and he got made fun of a lot. He never was real good at knowing what to say or when to say it, but he never gave anyone who tormented him the satisfaction of retaliating. And in battle, he would transform from an awkward fool of a cub into an ardent protector. He was a guardian too, and he threw himself to the front of any line, made himself a shield between the enemy and the very soldiers who had always put him down. And at the end of every battle it was Dinky that needed patched up and never those he had protected. Someone has to look after the sprout to keep him from getting himself killed trying to save someone. I failed at that with Dinky. I won't fail again."

Kharasa turned to Mikel with a smirk that showed her fangs. He was still gaping at her wide eyed. She turned back to keeping watch with smug satisfaction.

"Don't look so surprised. I am a Centurion of the Ash Legion. Even if that rank is mostly meaningless while I am on an individual assignment, it still means I am a commander from the legion known best for its spies and infiltrators. I already said there isn't much that I miss. I know my soldiers and I know what they need to be effective in battle. You rescued my partner and for that I consider you one of mine. That may end when we part ways, but for tonight you are under my watch. If that means I need to talk until you are calmed enough to rest, then so be it. I take care of my own."

She didn't even look to see Mikel's reaction to that. Instead she just kept talking. She kept her voice low and her eyes sharp on the forest. She told him about meeting Ciarannael, the vigil, even her bandmates. Long before the first faint glow began to appear in the east, her voice was hoarse and Mikel was fast asleep.


End file.
